


Taking Charge

by SheelaNaGig



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Belting, Bondage, D/s, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Mild S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheelaNaGig/pseuds/SheelaNaGig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nymeria is sick of Blackwall's brooding, so she utilizes some of the equipment found in the stables. Mouthy Sub!Blackwall.</p>
<p>**Spoilers concerning Blackwall**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watchwords

“Hey, Inquisitor. Have I told you the story about the ghost who haunts the stables?” Varric offered his trademark roguish grin and pulled from his pipe. A strata of sweet-smelling pipe smoke clouded the packed tavern and he raised his voice over the clot of conversations. “Some of the hostlers and merchants say the figure of an Orlesian soldier wanders through the hayloft at night. He’s even been spotted in the kitchens and the wine cellar time and again. Think I’ll call him the _Groaning Grey Warden_.”

The rest of the table tittered, but Nymeria Trevelyan wasn’t laughing. At least Varric had enough class to leave her bedroom off the list of places he haunted.

“Oh, psssh! Do not look so glum, Inquisitor,” Dorian said and sipped his red wine, looking unjustifiably elegant against his crude surroundings. “A man must plot his own course through obstacles of regret. This takes time. We can only hope he wrestles with his demons better than he wrestles with his grooming.”

Again the table chortled, Sera louder than the rest despite her friendship with the man at the arse-end of the joke. “Because some gruffalos have better hygiene than Grizzly Grey Warden, yeah? I get it!”

Nymeria leveled a scorching glare at the Tevinter mage but swallowed back her restive retort. She grew tired of defending him, of defending a man who barely defended himself. So with Dorian’s quip, she shook her head and left the table, turning her back on the congested din of the tavern for the crisp silence of the courtyard.

No one stopped her.

Days had passed since Blackwall’s trial and his ultimate pardon. They had done their version of kissing and making up in private, but the fallout of the following days had begun to sprout up like weeds in fine silks. Emissaries baring irate letters trickled in the following morning, growing to a steady stream by week’s end. The Grey Warden treaties used to garner dire financial support from allies had been authorized by a man who wasn’t, for all intents and purposes, a Grey Warden. 

“We must return the coin,” Josephine advised, her normally amenable brow pinched together in diplomatic conviction. “Let it be known that I am not calling your judgement of Blackwall into question, but need I draw attention to the hard fact that he isn’t _the_ Warden Blackwall, former Constable of Val Chevin. How could our allies _not_ believe we’ve cozened them into lending support?”

Cullen hammered his mailed fist on the War Table, rattling the strategic markers were they stood. “Support critical to the survival of the realm!” he insisted, visibly frustrated of this argument which had begun before Nymeria even set foot in the War Room. “How is it that the Grey Wardens themselves refuse to cause a stir out of Thom Rainier’s falsehood while Banns and Arls sit on their arses hundreds of miles from immediate danger and gripe about contributing resources? Such resources all dedicated to protecting _their_ lands from being overrun by a demon army. We will not return the coin they _should_ be providing regardless of fraudulent Warden treaties.”

Nymeria knew the matter was serious when her advisors over-emphasized their words. The debate spread like spilled wine past the War Room doors. By week’s end the tavern buzzed with accounts of the scandalous trial and people whispered to one another in the market, taking sidelong glances at the stables as if a monster dwelled there.

The Inquisitor expected another bout of his reticent brooding, but the disgraced warrior took to his loft above the stable yard like a priest hiding from Avarr raiders. The sparse occasions he ventured out involved snatching meals directly from the kitchens or stealing off with a tankard of spiced wine from the cellar. 

Nymeria strode through the yard, passing the few sentries and fewer guests which weren't crowded in the tavern or loitering around the keep. Raw scaffolding towered beside her, the wooden beams black against the moonless, starry sky above her head. They creaked with each gust of wind. Each groan of the wood a reminder of how tenuous her Inquisition stood. It towered tall yet brittle, steadily forming into a force to be reckoned with.

Once she drank the last drop of her resolve, Nymeria stalked into the barn’s murky semi-darkness. Cold air cut the smell of hay and manure. Cinder in the firepit and a few whittled projects provided the only signs of his presence. She peered through the inky shadows of the ceiling and spied a single lit lantern near his bed in the hayloft.

Each grating creak of the wooden steps sounded a fanfare of her arrival, yet he remained hidden wherever he was on the second level.

"Is everything alright, love?” he finally spoke from the shadows beside the window, sitting beside the makeshift pile of furs and straw mattress he deemed a bed. No matter how many suitable quarters she offered, leave it to Blackwall to prefer the barn.

"As well as it could be with a haughty darkspawn tyrant trying to kill me and mutated Templars running about,” she said as an attempt at humor and even she recognized the failure of it. "I was hoping we could talk."

He shrugged and quaffed from the tankard in hand. "You're in charge,” he said and rose to drag a chair from along the wall. The legs scraped against the floorboards until it found home bathed in lantern light. He gestured towards the chair. "My lady."

Nymeria sighed and took a seat, watching as Blackwall sat back in shadow. Figures he'd seat her in light to read her expressions as he cloaked himself in an aegis of gloom. The Inquisitor indulged the attempt at furtive hospitality without calling out his strategic advantage.

“Why are you hiding the barn, Blackwall?” she said, cutting to the heart of the matter.

He grunted in a half-laugh. “Because if I hid in your bedroom you’d never get anything done.”

“I’m serious,” she pressed. “What’s past is passed. You are pardoned in the eyes of the law.”

“But not the eyes of the people.” She heard him scratching at his beard. “Suppose it’s my turn to play pariah. Dorian must be loving this when the people would sooner embrace a bloody Vint than a fraudulent Grey Warden responsible for cold murder.”

“Then show them you’re more than that,” she urged. “Show them what you’ve shown me.”

He shifted on the bale, stalks crunching as he leaned into the light with a distraught expression.

“For years I fretted, avoiding women save for the occasional whore or camp follower. What I did…” he struggled to articulate the possible multitude of grievances in his mind. “What I did made me filthy, stained me, and the muck shall only rub off any woman who gets close to me. Herald or not, you are too fine a woman to be besmirched by my sins. But it happened anyway.” He paced away from her, staring out into the smattering of stars pulsing in the night sky. “That’s why I left you that morning, and why I should be anywhere but here. Anywhere that takes me away from you.”

“But you’re here.” She surprised even herself at her level voice. “You’re here because you can be a better man and I love you. I’m not without mistake and miscalculation as well, but you love me.”

“I couldn’t help but fall in love with you, Nym. I’m not sure how any man or ladies of that ilk couldn’t fall in love with you,” he confessed, and rubbed his throat beneath the beard. “What I’ll never fathom, no matter how many times you say it, is how a formidable, smart woman like yourself develops even a tatter of endearment for an underserving nobody.”

“The way you look at me, like you—” Nymeria started, snapping her lips shut to clip her own babbling.

“And how do I look at you, my lady?” He’d slipped into the shadow again.

_Like you’d worship me and devour me in the same breath. That if we were any other two people, we’d never stray far from a bed._

“Unlike anyone else looks at me,” Nymeria finally explained after a long pause. “Most people stare like they’re expecting the visage of Andraste to spring from my hand brandishing a flaming sword.” She stared down at her hand, perhaps even she expected a crackle of green energy or the uncomfortable tingle of when the Anchor awoke. But it was just a normal palm, creased and calloused from years of practicing with daggers. “But when you look at me…you remind me I’m human. That the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisitor are built upon the foundation of a normal woman.”

“Ha,” Blackwall grunted and downed the rest of his tankard before wiping his lips on his sleeve. “You were never just a normal woman. And do not assume I’m referencing your nobility.” A frigid breeze blew through the window and he sniffed. “Our gallant Commander Cullen looks at you the same as I. A young man so hearty and hale, highly esteemed and distinguished among his colleagues. That’s the type of man you should be with.” 

And for a moment longer than she measured, Nymeria stared at him, stripping away the lines on his face and the threads of gray in his dark hair. She imagined him a man of Cullen’s age before the weight of his sins came to settle upon those broad shoulders. Yes, he’d probably been handsome then too, though lacking the distinguished gruffness earned in years of solitude. The charming young man with aspirations of glory as he fought in the melee at the Grand Tourney. 

But that wasn’t him. That wasn’t Blackwall. 

Thom Rainier. What kind of man was Thom Rainier? Had he been ostentatious like so many Orlesians? Her mind conjured an image of a cleanly preened young man dressed in a vibrant Captain’s uniform and gleaming mask. Who bled bravado, drawing the eye of every woman, and perhaps some men, as he swaggered through Val Royeaux. And for a scathing second, she was jealous of every other woman he took to his bed, and most assuredly stayed when they had awoken the next morning.

“But I don’t want Cullen,” she said and stood. “I want you.”

“You already have me, for better or worse. Sorry, love, but worse seems to be the luck of the draw.”

“Good. Take off your clothes.” The command sprouted her off her tongue with absolutely no premeditation or consideration. Nymeria was sick of watching her lover trudge through a mire of sulking self-pity.

"No," he said, glowering at her.

The Inquisitor reflected his glare. "You must be mistaken. That wasn't a request. That was a command, darling. You do always say that _I'm in charge_ , do you not?"

“Do not mistake me for some callow tenderfoot with no hair on his balls,” he groused and stuck his thumbs in her belt, as if to prove his intention to disobey her.

The tense silence thickened and spiked between them. Just when Nymeria fretted her gambit had blundered, Blackwall stepped before her, frosty eyes locking onto hers.

"If you're going to do this every time I become a little sullen, I ought to find a better hiding place," he said ruefully yet unfastened his quilted coat all the same. "Next we'll be discussing watchwords and picking out shackles."

Nymeria allowed a wicked smile to curl on her lips. "It's like you're reading my mind. I was thinking _Dalish_ or _Arishok_.” She paused and tilted her head. "Wait, how do you know about watchwords?"

He chuckled. The salacious indication of his humor rode a frisson of heat through her core. Blackwall continued to undress, prolonging his response until he shed his coat and undertunic.

"Exactly how I use to dance in another life. You become accustomed to certain…exotic proclivities serving a member of the Orlesian court."

The color seethed in puddles of red across Nymeria's cheeks and down her neck. Suddenly, she felt like a novice playing at his game. "You've done these things before?"

He arched an eyebrow and observed her sudden loss of confidence. "Not first hand," he reassured her. "The game of masks involves a shining public face to conceal the lurid habits of nobility. And Robert's true face was filthy behind his pristine facade."

Blackwall hesitated, looking more naked than he had the previous moment before discussing his past. He sat down to unlace his boots. "I helmed Ser Robert’s personal guard detail. We shadowed him everywhere, including wine sinks and whore houses. Well, Robert was prone to somewhat...peculiar tastes in women. I spent the first evening wondering why they kept saddles and horse crops strewn about so far from the stables. That is until I caught a glimpse of another patron’s lurid encounter."

"Did it…repulse you?" Nymeria bit her lip and watched him yank off his boots.

He shrugged. "The people screaming bloody murder unnerved me. But what two, or sometimes three or more consenting people do behind closed doors is none of my business or subject to my judgement. If my employer came out in one piece with a smile on his face, then I didn't give a shit if he was getting buggered with a blackjack or beaten with nettles."

Blackwall’s hand lingered over his belt buckle and he locked eyes with the Inquisitor.

“ _Je me rends._ For the watchword," he offered, albeit reluctantly. "Because if you have me speaking Orlesian, then I'm at my breaking point."

Before Nymeria could ask for a translation, Blackwall pushed his breeches down his hips, shirking the last barrier between his body and nudity. A breathlessness still fluttered in Nymeria's chest no matter how many times she’d seen him so gloriously unclothed. Despite his initial rumblings of objection, his manhood stirred, half-swollen against his thigh.


	2. Je Me Rends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mouthy Sub!Blackwall may be my favorite Blackwall. Also Femdom Inquisitor because you go girl.
> 
> *hastily posted before I go watch the Hobbit:BoFA for the third time*
> 
> Thanks for reading!

She closed the gap between them with quick strides, seizing his jaw and inclined his chin down. Despite the notable flutter of the pulse throbbing along his throat, Blackwall hid any further trepidation. Lightning arced in the breath’s distance between their lips, persuading the lovers to sate blood borne desires which defied hierarchy. Yet both remained still, stolid in their presumed roles.

His strapping body threw off heat, a raging forge of battle-hardened muscle tempered by years in the wild. She could smell him. Robust and manly, smelling of sweat, cedar and iron. Moments like these she was glad Blackwall ignored Dorian’s unsolicited advice on hygiene. Some women preferred their men smelling like a pleasure house, but Nymeria Trevelyan liked her man musky and natural. 

The fever of tension broke as his hands clasped on her hips, pulling her close as he sucked on the column of her lithe neck. Though the act shot a current heavy heat into her core, the Inquisitor pushed him away with a short, hearty shove upon both shoulders.

“I’ll not quietly play that _no touching_ game as we did before,” he warned in a voice rough with need.

“If my pet can’t behave, then I suppose I’ll just have to bind his hands to save him from insubordination.” She looked around. The loft conveniently offered up several coils of rope and cloth, but Nymeria spied something a bit more rugged and to her liking. “Clasp your hands on the small of your back.”

He growled at her, succumbing to his feral longing with the same gusto she dedicated towards austere control. But regardless of his snarling inner beast showing its teeth, Blackwall obeyed. And after a few fumbling attempts, a slim leather rein trussed his wrists at the small of his back. The bond forced his shoulders back and pushed the elbows to crook at right angles.

"Why bind my hands when we could put them to much better use?” he spoke and leaned in, those lush lips a breath from the shell of her ear. "Or have you forgotten about how my fingers made you cry my name this morning?"

A bolt of a memory replete with sensory details tore through her mind. Blackwall sitting against her headboard. His rough fingers slick with her juices stroking the sensitive pearl between her spread thighs as she writhed. Her naked shoulders flush against his bare chest. The hair of his beard and chest bristling between their fever hot bodies and the undeniable presence of the rigid erection prodding the small of her back.

"If you don't stop talking, I will gag you," she threatening in a lust-frail voice.

Blackwall smiled like he'd just won the pot at a game of Wicked Grace. "As you wish, my lady."

She tousled his hair, letting the dark length of it dangle and frame his face. "There. Much better. You look like an untamed Avvar raider with your hair down."

Blackwall raised an eyebrow. "Does my lady wish for me to act like a barbarian?” he suggested slyly. "I've never been one for ravishment, but I could try if you'd like. Maker knows how I'd love to have you on your back with those pretty legs wrapped around my waist."

"Only if you can break out of your bonds. That would be quite the feat.” Nymeria’s pithy smile chilled like a winter’s gale.

"My lady doubts my ardor. If only she knew how I would crawl across the Hissing Wastes like a shamed supplicant if only for a taste of her cunt," he said and every muscle in Nymeria's core clenched, apparently fond of that notion. "So if my lady would have me scoop her up and show her the full force of my desire, then all she needs to do is release me." An illustrative tugging at his binds accompanied his oath.

The hunger of his words gnawed at her fragile command of the scene. Prohibiting bands of iron girded around the yearning to untie his arms and let him take her. But how would that be any different from the other times they made love? She wanted that authority for herself, craving the power she had the second night they spent together. The carnal memory emboldened her desire to preserve her control.

The Inquisitor’s hand rose to his face, caressing his whiskered cheek before admonishing him with a stinging slap. The strike would've bitten deeper had he lacked the padding of his beard.

Hues of shock, outrage, and wry amusement shimmered in his piercing eyes which now pierced into her soul. A subtle patch of red crept from beneath the shadow of his beard where she hit him. She could hear the spate of unpleasantries boiling on his tongue, but Blackwall swallowed everything back and wore an ill-fitting mask of apology.

"Have I said something to displease my lady?" he spoke cold and sharp like a dagger’s edge.

"Just informing my pet that his vulgar choice of words carry repercussions.” She ran her fingertips over his bottom lip before her tongue traveled the same course. "Should I gag you now or will you take my punishments?"

"I'll take them, my lady,” he said, his eyes fixed on her bottom lip. "I will take anything you give me, whether it be pleasure or punishment."

Nymeria permitted the sentiment to hover without response. She paced around his body, occasionally trailing her touch over a muscle here or a scar there. One particular scratch of a single nail down the valley of his spine wrought a shudder from the bound man. 

"Your arse is marvelous," she said, punctuating her compliment by raking her nails over the taut mounds.

"That is subject to opinion," he grunted. "But if it pleases my lady, then it pleases me."

“Of course it pleases me. It belongs to me.”

The questing hands ghosted over his hips. One curled around his engorged cock as its partner cupped the heavy set of bollocks hanging beneath.

"These are mine as well. You'd best remember that, darling,” she said in a sweetly malicious voice like poison. "You're not to swive anyone else, that includes yourself. Unless I give express permission.”

She heard a spike of curiosity when he spoke. "You would, erm, you'd want to watch me with another woman?"

Nymeria laughed at his optimism. "That pertained to masturbation, but I could just easily give you to Bull as opposed to another woman.”

"You wouldn't dare," he choked out, trying to twist his body to glare at her.

"You're right," she sighed and stepped in front of him, taking his diamond-hard length in both hands. "I'd grow entirely too jealous of anyone else touching you. Doesn't mean I wouldn't let them watch, of course.”

The cock twitched in her hands and the Inquisitor’s smile widened. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? To have someone watch us as we swive. Is there a story behind that?"

He smirked as if he wasn't currently bound and naked. Strange how dominance rooted so tightly in perspective. "Another lifetime, my lady."

She grabbed his balls in a silent threat. "Another lifetime your lady demands to hear about."

The smug smirk endured despite the threat of bodily harm. "Winter Balls and grand social events aren't the only times the Orlesian nobility gathers. An army captain earns certain... clandestine opportunities when the women of court wish to play. Which is why finding that man tied to the Empress' bed was hardly a surprise."

"And why is that?" Nymeria let her intrigue trump reserve.

"There are other parties, ones which aren't billed all over the realm which make the Winter Ball look like tea time. Less clothes, better masks, little privacy, but usually that’s the point. After fencing invitations to these soirees, a man can develop a taste for such things.”

"Everyone knows about the Orlesian orgies," Nymeria scoffed and dragged her fingertip along a prominent vein of his cock.

His tongue slid out, wetting his dry lips which Nymeria longed to moisten herself. "Everyone knows about the Orlesian orgies like everyone was an eyewitness to you sealing the Breach. Those tawdry tales are nothing compared to real event."

Before she could respond, he leaned in, locking his eyes on hers, as if gauge an upcoming reaction.

"I've thought about it," he spoke barely above a whisper. "About having you on your knees, bent over a divan, taking that gorgeous, lush arse from behind like a wild beast whilst everyone watched. The masks are entirely optional."

A flush the color dark wine seeped across Nymeria's cheeks. She opened her mouth, some inchoate complaint ready to leap off her tongue, only to be silenced by his mouth. Blackwall surged forward, devouring her words and thoughts with his ravaging tongue and prickling beard. The ridges of his teeth scraped her bottom lip as she tore her lips away.

"Are you going to slap me again, my lady?" he challenged and made no move to feint any oncoming strike.

This man was entirely too damn smug. She let her irritation ripen before turning and retrieving a cinch strap from where it hung on a peg. The pliant leather folded in her hand as she clutched the metal rings securely in her palm.

“Hmmm,” Nymeria made a pleasant hum in her throat as she smacked the leather strap against her palm, earning a quiet growl of warning from her bound sub. She slid the looped strap down the nape of his neck, between the thick columns of his powerful back to rest on his muscular rear. The nefarious touch of leather glided across his hip as she paced in front of him. Those blue eyes blustered silent threats if she should indulge her intentions.

"Oh, my handsome soldier, your mouth is going to earn you a mottled arse. Shame really," she said, brushing the worn leather across his buttocks before flicking the strap with the barest force. "It would almost be worth it, seeing you wince every time you ride a horse for the next week.”

A throaty chuckle broke his tight silence. "Aye, it's certainly a lovely sight every time _you_ wince as you ride me. Watching you whimper and quiver while your tight, sloppy cunt stretches over my prick."

The strap hit harder this time, clouting the seat of his arse with a shrill _thwap_. Her lover choked back a yelp of pain, bridling the outburst into a strangled grunt. A red welt bloomed upon the punished flesh, crisp like a brand. Nymeria’s fingertips fluttered over the hot, seething mark and she felt a crackle of her own heat riding into her clit.

"Perhaps that gag is in order to save such a magnificent arse from your mouth’s pompous babbling,” she said.

"I'm only telling you what we could be doing, what I could do to you, if only my lady didn't insist on these bonds."

"And I'm telling you that I do find your obscenity unseemly,” she lied.

“Then you mistake me for some gallant white knight like your Commander Cullen," he spoke only a breath away from her lips, so close she felt the heat of him. "Handsome, elegant, never heard the man utter a curse, even in private. You had flirted with him as well, if memory serves me right."

"And what if I did?" she asked firmly despite the tightening in her chest.

"He'll talk to you proper, and fuck you well enough I'm sure. But do you think he'd allow you to do this?” He tugged at the bonds. “Nay, you've a lick of fire in you, my lady, that leaves other men burnt who think they're braw enough to withstand your heat. So I'll say what I want because such obscenity floods that tight quim of yours.”

Blackwall didn’t flinch the second time she raised her hand. Instead of a smack, the Inquisitor brushed her fingers over his mouth before unbuckling her belt. Her trousers and smallclothes fell and hung from the top of her laced boots. The warrior’s nostrils flared as her desirous aroma floated up, pervading the air like something fresh baked and out of the oven. She slid her fingers into her wet quim, mindful to bite back the smile at Blackwall's groan, knowing his eyes rapt by every sensuous movement.

Nymeria lifted her coated fingers, holding them between them. The lantern light flickering in the potent juices like facets on a jewel. "You don't have to crawl across the Hissing Wastes for a taste, darling. All I want is for you to beg."

"May I taste your cunt?" he asked.

She sidestepped and belted him across the buttocks. "Would you like to rephrase that?"

A hiss of pain steadied his voice. ”May I taste your cunt, my lady?"

The second crack staggered Blackwall forward with a swear tumbling off his tongue.

"My pet is as stubborn as a ram, but with worse manners," Nymeria huffed, tapping the leather loop across her own bare thigh.

"If you find my proclivities vulgar, then you might as well belt me again, love,” he challenged.

And she did. Four more clouts from the belt landed true across his punished arse. The Inquisitor was careful to keep the metal rings in her palm and the leather from wrapping around his hip, lest it rip away skin. Pain clashed with pleasure to created the most beautiful duet of stimulation, but the last thing she wanted to do was maim him.

"As stubborn as a beast, as crude as a beast, so I suppose that's why you wish to swive me like a beast?” She stroked his cheek, running her gentle touch over his temple before burying her fingers in his hair. Nymeria tugged his head to the side. "Would you like to swive me like a beast right now, pet?"

The ink in his pupils spilled larger over the frost blue irises. "Aye, my lady."

Wordlessly, she relinquished his hair, letting the tresses fall from her fingers like coils of silk. The cinch strap cast away, landing on the ground floor below them, and she heard Blackwall’s relieved sigh. “Stay like that and look straight ahead. Don’t turn around, or I’ll find something else to beat your arse with.

She sat daintily upon the straw mattress, stripping off clothing and discarding it in a heap next to the bed. Giddy heat frayed against the chill in the air, but it was the arousal which made her quiver. Nymeria rubbed her arms, warming herself and restoring her imperious facade before she bade him to face her. When Blackwall’s gaze fell upon her naked body, she let out a churlish giggle as the man struggled in his bonds. 

“Tut, tut,” she wagged her finger at the riled warrior, secretly questioning the integrity of her knotwork. “You’ll only hurt yourself by fighting it. And I’ll be sure to inform the healer _exactly_ how you pulled a muscle.”

A predatory smile curled within his beard. “Aye, and I’ll be sure to inform everyone _exactly_ why their Inquisitor is walking funny for the next few days.” He returned to fighting against his binding.

The desperate virility of a denied man never ceased to amaze her. The burly lummox would certainly hurt himself if she didn’t offer a treat. Dressed in only a sly smirk and goosebumps, Nymeria slid from the mattress, turned away from him and knelt on the floor. She shook her derrière like bait in a trap, knowing Blackwall couldn’t help himself but become ensnared.

“Is this how you wanted me?” she said sweetly with a shimmy of her hips. “Afraid we lack the audience and the divan.”

“Maker’s divine cock,” he swore and advanced on her. “Woman, there are things you do not tease a desperate man with. And that luscious arse is one of them. My lady is cruel.”

“Your cruel lady is giving you a treat. On one condition, of course.” She nibbled her bottom lip as her lover groaned in amorous frustration. “You’re to drop to your knees behind me and hold back your thrusts while _I_ control the pace of our coupling. Is that agreeable?”

“We have an accord, my lady,” he agreed without a moment’s hesitation. Blackwall knelt behind her, his very aura radiating heat and the musky, cedar scent of him caressing her ways in the ways his hands couldn’t. 

With a pleased sigh, Nymeria bore herself back, guiding in the initial few inches by hand before letting her hips do the rest. The heavy girth still stretched her, easier than the first few times they made love, but the fullness of the flesh breaching her tight heat still bred exquisite shudders. She’d never fully become accustomed to his thick cock. A rough groan loosed from Blackwall’s throat as she bottomed out, her derrière flush against his pelvis.

"Remember, you're not to move. Not one thrust. Or else I'll go back downstairs and find that strap. Do you understand, darling?" she asked, each syllable tenuously enunciated despite the roaring in her veins.

"Aye, my lady. But what if I need to come?" The honest question wracked a shiver up her spine.

"Do so without my permission and you'll be lapping it up like the disobedient dog you are,” she threatened, queerly thrilled by the punishment.

Her butt slammed against his hips with a hollow smack. Her walls rippled around the thick glans as it dragged out before she sunk down upon it. It was all she could do not to claw at the blanket rumpled beneath her torso. This was the first time she'd ever felt completely in control a joining pace, and the power of it thrummed in her blood, lifting her spirit to new heights.

She craned her neck to look behind her, straining. The inability to look into a lover’s face was one of the downsides of _a tergo_. A flash of white teeth sunk into his bottom lip beneath his sweaty, creased brow. Blackwall had closed his eyes, probably seeking a dark center inside himself to stow the lust-dazed delirium. The hard ridges of pectorals clenched, rippling into his shallow abs with each denied thrust. Sweat beaded and rolled off the tip of his nose, splattering on her buttock as he remained hunched over her.

"Maker, Nym, your driving me mad,” he rasped as if in pain.

“I’m giving you what you dreamed about, just not in the way you expected it,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Still she missed the wonderful things his hands did to her body as they made love. Craving more stimulation, Nymeria slid her hand between her thighs to stroke her aching clit. Her own fondling melded with her thrusts on his thick shaft, driving her closer to release. Yet, she longed to unleash that confined ferocity of his and let it play.

"Fuck me," she whispered so low, too low before she realized he hadn’t heard her. "Fuck me, Blackwall. Move your hips and fuck me,” she said more forcefully the second time.

His answer came swift and strident, jolting her body forward by the brutal force of his initial thrust. "Is that what you want?" he spoke against the crook of her shoulder.

He thrust again. The bulky warrior leaned forward and pinned her hips to the side of the mattress with his body. The sly maneuver also trapped her wrist between her stomach and the unrelenting bed. His hot breath fanned over the nape of her neck. "Because if my lady wants to get fucked, then she must command me to give her every inch of my prick while I pound her sweet little cunt.”

Nymeria vacillated between clawing the mattress for purchase and threading her fingers of her free hand in his hair. Release was there, dangling at her core by strings he now held sole power to cut.

"My lady is awfully quiet for a woman who begged me to fuck a moment ago.” She felt his smirk unfurl against her shoulder. "Ask, and she'll receive."

The words alone edged her closer to coming and she hadn't even spoken them yet. "Give me every fat inch of your prick, Blackwall. Pound my cunt and fill me with your seed."

A rasping grunt told her he appreciated her edits and the thrusts started anew. The blistering pace folded her body forward. The blanket bristled her taut nipples, curling a leyline of pleasure to tether in her quim.

The scope of events narrowed. The weight of his past and her present fell away, forgotten in the joining of the bodies. She stripped off the Inquisitor and he shed Thom Rainier. In this moment, none of that mattered. Who they were, who they are, what the future had in store for them died to sound of his hips slamming against her bum with a wet smack. The worries, the weight would be revenant once more, but right now, all Nymeria cared about was how his iron hardness plundered her sopping wet heat with the affinity of a pickaxe

Lacking the use of his hands, Blackwall snarled and sunk his teeth into her shoulder, holding her in place like a mating wolf. Sharp pain rippled from the bite, coiling her orgasm tighter. 

"Maker, I hate these fucking bonds,” he whispered and brushed kisses over her nape. “I could be palming your pretty tits right now.”

Her own fingers flew to her breasts, pinching and rolling her nipples until something shattered inside her. Her quim rippled and grasped on him tighter than a fist, driving him over the tipping point until he to spilled inside her with a grunt and cursing oath.

She cried his name, their flesh meeting in staggered slaps until both collapsed forward, quaking and ragged breathed onto the mattress.

“Je me rends, Madame," he capitulated, pressing his forehead to her back slick with his sweat as well as hers. "My shoulders are fucking killing me."

He pivoted back on his haunches with a pained groan, allowing her to slip from beneath his heavy body and release his binds. Liberated at last, Blackwall rolled the ache from his shoulders and slumped forward onto the straw mattress beside her, resting his cheek upon the blanket. Both laid there, staring into each others eyes and savoring a torpor punctuated by heavy breaths and slowing pulses.

Nymeria jumped as his hands glided over her derrière. A single finger glanced over her sore folds, swirling to play with mix of her nectar and his seed trickling out of her quim.

"You're going turn me to even more of a brooder if this the penalty for such behavior,” he jested weakly and helped roll onto the bed. They both curled up beneath the warm blanket, drifting off to sound of the wind whistling through the ramparts and the rustling of banners.

 

****

 

Nymeria awoke to a hand gently rousing her. She pulled the covers over her head with groggy groan.

"Erm, love. You may want to have a look at this," Blackwall urged beyond the flimsy barrier of blanket.

She turned over the sheet with shiver as morning chill whispered over her bare flesh and sunlight blinded her.

Blackwall sat beside her, holding a small vial and a note, looking oddly sheepish for a man who spoke such lascivious intentions the night before. "Went to take a piss and found this sitting on my workbench. It's from..er, well, you'll see."

A flowing cursive script to make even the most talented scribe jealous danced across a yellow square of parchment.

_My dearest Inquisitor and the man formally known as Warden Blackwall,_

_Late last night I came to apologize for my rude remarks and tawdry comments. Unfortunately, I appeared to have caught you when you were tied up. At least one of you anyway. Regardless, I offer my earnest apologies at visiting at such an inopportune time, but my hands were tied by my guilt._

_Your dashing mage,  
Dorian Pavus._

_PS: I went back to my quarters and mixed a fertility potion, of which you'll certainly be needing by the demands I heard being cried from the loft upon my return._

_PSS: Good on you, Inquisitor._

"Maker's balls," Nymeria cheeks flushed, staving off the chilly mountain air. 


End file.
